


we rattle this house, we rattle this scene

by stonesnuggler



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, this is really just alex waxing poetic abt his boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 03:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/pseuds/stonesnuggler
Summary: Alex wants to touch, to reach out and brush his fingers over the tip of Dylan’s nose, the highest point of his cheekbones, his lower lip that seems to always be chapped no matter how much of that mango chapstick he uses.He doesn’t, can’t allow himself to bring Dylan out of whatever dream has his eyelashes fluttering just a little, so he settles for drinking in the sight of Dylan naked and sunlit, skin warmed by the sun.





	we rattle this house, we rattle this scene

**Author's Note:**

> happy bye week, alex and dylan are definitely still in love.
> 
> huge thank you to j and g, as they're the only ones who were allowed to see this while it was in progress.
> 
> title from anna sun by wtm

Even with an alarm set for hours from now, it’s a sunbeam that wakes Alex up on the first official day of the bye week, shining bright and insistent on his face demanding him to open his eyes and greet the day.

He curses himself for his affinity for the right side of the bed, then curses this resort for the positioning of its sliding doors, but he’s over his grumbling soon enough when he blinks the sleep and sun out of his eyes to the sight of Dylan with a hand tucked under his pillow, something just short of intoxicating.

Alex tucks his hand under his own pillow, sighing as he settles into the mattress again, allowing himself to take in the room around him. They’ve got clothes littering the floor, shirts and sweatpants strewn about and forgotten from last night when Dylan kissed him completely breathless.

They left the curtains to the sliding doors open last night, nobody able to see them but the ocean, and Alex is keen that she wouldn’t tell a soul as to what they’ve been up to. The waves are crashing on the beach, mere paces away from their door and close enough for Alex to hear. It’s white noise to him now, just like the easy, humming breaths Dylan is taking.

His face is calm while he sleeps, lips just barely parted and eyelashes fanning over his cheeks, sun casting the slightest shadow. Alex wants to touch, to reach out and brush his fingers over the tip of Dylan’s nose, the highest point of his cheekbones, his lower lip that seems to always be chapped no matter how much of that mango chapstick he uses.

He doesn’t, can’t allow himself to bring Dylan out of whatever dream has his eyelashes fluttering just a little, so he settles for drinking in the sight of Dylan naked and sunlit, skin warmed by the sun.

The sun slopes over him, shining golden on his bare skin and gleaming off the single chain around his neck, another thing shining in Alex’s eye. The pendant and most of the chain have pooled into the dip of his collarbone, face turned away from the rising sun, chest rising and falling under the hand not hidden away under the pillow.

He lets his eyes trail lower, to where the duvet is almost entirely off of him, mostly from Alex’s blanket thievery, but also from the way that he always gets too warm. He almost always ends up kicking the covers off until they’re abandoned in a heap on the ground for Alex to grab in the middle of the night.

Alex can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the sun did this intentionally. She knew, somehow, that Alex missed this Dylan –– free from the stressors of expectations, of stats and score sheets, of everything else that goes on in that beautiful head of his. His stillness allows Alex to count the freckles littering his skin, the fading hockey bruises on his sides and the deepening Alex bruises on his collarbones, some sneaking just high enough where they can be seen now, but won’t be there by the time they get back home.

He’s shoved out of his little reverie when Dylan shifts, a hum stuck in his throat as he rolls forward onto his stomach, the duvet falling off of him entirely save where it’s hooked around his ankle. It’s still baffling to Alex some days that he gets to have this. Warm and pliant and loving and _Dylan_ –– his for the taking _,_ his to be taken by.

The moment feels oddly reminiscent of the morning after they made things official between them, even if only in the way Dylan has an almost-smile playing at his lips. There was no sun streaming into their billets basement that they basically made into their mini-apartment, no waves crashing outside their window, but there was Dylan’s warmth bleeding into Alex’s side, Dylan’s unruly then-blond curls matted with sleep on the pillow next to him.

An OHL Champions hat was on the side table –– it was Alex’s, and that just so happened to be where it landed after Dylan took it off of him, tossing it aside after Alex settled on his knees in front of him, eager to thread his fingers through Alex’s hair.

In that morning-after moment, Alex was taking it in while he could because as far as he knew, he was never going to get this again, not after a few weeks time. They were going to the Memorial Cup, where they would either win or lose and then Dylan would be in Arizona and Alex would be god knows where, but they wouldn’t be together. Not anymore.

He’s never been happier about being wrong in his life.

Nothing in his wild dreams could’ve prepared him for the phone call he got a few months ago, and he’s got a shattered mug and a coffee stain on his living room rug to prove it. Like, sure, late at night in the throes of loneliness, it was easy to drift into what-ifs and maybes, but Arizona was starting to give Dylan a chance. But Chicago wasn’t _that_ bad. But it was just wishful thinking.

But. But. But.

But nothing.

Alex can’t help but smile as his eyes settle on Dylan again, settle on the freckle just below his eye that Alex loves to press kisses to. He lets himself reach out, then, softly pushing Dylan’s hair back, fingers running through his curls. Still asleep, Dylan hums and shifts again, the arm that’s not under his pillow reaching out and settling on Alex’s arm.

Alex loves him — this is nothing new and hasn’t been for nearly two years, but sometimes it just consumes him, igniting in his chest and burning slow, steady, sure. Alex gets to love him, gets to be loved _by_ him.

And while getting to play NHL fucking hockey with him is great, no amount of goals scored or games won in a Blackhawks sweater with Dylan by his side will ever compare to the feeling of coming home to him, win or lose.

He’s still got his fingers pushing absently through Dylan’s hair when he feels Dylan’s fingers start to brush against his arm. Alex stills his hand for just a second and is met with Dylan sleepily grumbling, pushing back into the touch.

“Time’s it?” Dylan manages, voice rough and thick with sleep.

Alex smiles as Dylan’s eyes blink open, meeting his. “Little after seven, I think.”

Dylan groans, snuggles closer into Alex, tucking his face into his neck, nosing at his jaw. “You’re not physically capable of sleeping in, are you?”

“Old habits,” Alex says, laughing as he presses a kiss to Dylan’s head. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Five more minutes,” Dylan says into Alex’s skin, and okay, Alex can be on board with that.

_X_

Five more minutes easily turns into two more hours as Alex lets himself sink into the feeling of Dylan wrapped around him. Breakfast is what pulls them out of bed, then the resort’s beach-view yoga session in lieu of a real workout.

(“I’m not running while we’re here,” Dylan had said after they had made it to their room. “Like, at all. So don’t even ask.”

“How ever will you get your cardio in?” Alex smirked, falling back onto the bed.

Dylan just laughed, abandoning his suitcase on the couch as in favor of meeting Alex on top of the duvet. “I have a few ideas.”)

Mid-day brings poolside mimosas and lunch, too much sunscreen and only a little ogling on Alex’s part. He really keeps it together pretty well, considering Dylan is all tall, tan and handsome, right in front of his face like that.

They fall into bed shortly after their late lunch, taking each other apart with deft fingers, tracing tongues, until they fall sticky and sated into a sunkissed nap.

It’s Alex that wakes up to Dylan’s easy touches this time, feather-light grazes of Dylan’s fingertips running over the lines of the pond hockey tattoo on Alex’s upper arm as the sun burns orange, just barely beginning to set.

“Morning sunshine,” Dylan says, easy smile on his face as he traces over pipes of the net, down the stick of the skater. It gives Alex goosebumps, even in the warmth of Dylan next to him. _Especially_ in the warmth of Dylan next to him.

“I love when you do that,” Alex says, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets himself be.

Dylan smiles a little brighter, fingertip swirling through the trees before he ducks down to press a kiss to Alex’s lips. It’s soft, tentative in a way that _Dylan_ rarely lets himself be, and that just – it makes Alex’s heart clench, overwhelming fondness rising to the surface in the form of heat in his cheeks.

“You said we had dinner plans?” Dylan says, when he finally pulls back, settling back into the duvet, arm draped over Alex’s stomach. “Six, right?”

Alex hums, settles his arm over Dylan’s. “Yeah, but I’m seriously considering saying fuck it and ordering in.”

Dylan laughs, shaking his head. “Nope. Not letting that happen,” he says, lightly pinching Alex’s side. “You packed my favorite dress-shirt of yours, no way I’m missing out on that.”

He definitely did, for the record. It’s his only dark purple shirt, standing out in his closet among stark whites and cool blues, but every time he wears it, Dylan can’t stop commenting on how blue his eyes are. He almost returned it, but Dylan’s reaction the first time he wore it rendered that impossible.

Still, he shrugs, smiling. “I had to fill the space that unpacking your Burberry shirts left.”

It doesn’t take them long at all to get ready –– they don’t even get distracted when they shower together, which is a win in and of itself –– and most of that time was Dylan trying to tame his curls into some semblance of presentable.

“Ready?” Dylan asks, and Alex pats his pockets, double checking that he has everything.

Phone, room key, wallet.

Ring –– loose, not in the box.

“Ready,” he confirms, taking Dylan’s outstretched hand, walking out of the room and letting the door swing shut behind them.

  
  
  
  



End file.
